


maybe and somehow won't make any good

by anthones



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthones/pseuds/anthones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Standing on the bridge, fists clenched, he feels fuzzy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maybe and somehow won't make any good

Maybe and somehow won't make any good.

 

Standing on the bridge, fists clenched, he feels fuzzy. Fuzzy like the mop of hair on his head that everyone has always preened over. It wasn’t so bad that it was short because it helped with the curls.

_No, I do not mind, Panya, keep your hair like that. It is so cute._

He feels fuzzy like his hair that he half loves and half hates because he doesn’t want to be _cute_. It’s one more step away from himself, from the competent, no, the fucking _great_ navigator that he knows he is.

It’s a step away from the man he want s to be.

He touches the console in front of him,

  _his_ console,

and revels in the smoothness--the certainty. He wants it so bad for himself.

He feels the way space looks when Sulu sends them into warp,

the way the captain appears when Scotty beams him up. He wishes he could ask the engineer to make _him_ solid again, but he understands how beaming tech works and that that theory doesn’t apply here.

He feels the way his words sound to others, running together with Z’s and misplaced consonants,

passwords that don’t work because a computer can’t use context clues. 

He feels like lies that spill out, no, he’s not that young, but _dammit, man_ , if he told you the truth you wouldn’t believe him and you’d go looking for the answer.

The discomfort of having to explain was almost better than what he feels now because at least that was sure. He hated it, hated the knowing look in the other’s eyes when he admitted that he wasn’t seventeen, but at least that was certain.

He isn’t sure whether to hate this feeling or embrace it because it’s almost like not hurting at all but the numb, the fuzz, is suffocating. He can’t breathe around the curls and the blur. Not knowing what to do with uncertainty only makes it worse.

He clings to the console and that one word, _he_ , to his name, _Pavel_ , and doesn’t let it go because they are sure, they are certain, they are solid. Despite the unclear feelings in his head he knows _these are right_. He is Pavel Chekov and no amount of anxiety can take that from him.


End file.
